Wasting it has become a hobby, no, a profession. So what. What value does it have if it’s always dull and useless.
Desiring the unattainable, searching for the irretrievable. Longing for the scent of the long gone, manipulating the immovable, playing with the inevitable. Drowning breath. So hard to ignore yet pointless.
Spending as if it could never run out. Wanting it to but on the precipice fearing the craving. Too many unmade choices. Too many unanswered dreams. The silence remains, could be eternal. The underlying could be regrettable.
But wisdom fails, sorrow manifests and drive fades. Still more passes and loss is overwhelming to my humanity.
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